


Unfiltered

by wordywarrior



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordywarrior/pseuds/wordywarrior
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Reader, Chris Evans (Actor) & You, Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Unfiltered

* * *

It was bound to happen again soon or later, and really, you should’ve expected it.

Some Hollywood up-and-comer had tagged a photo of you at the awards ceremony. The caption had been a _grossly inappropriate_ , backhanded compliment. It had also been hash-tagged with _#morecushionforthepushin_ , and because of your last name, it went viral in less than a microsecond.

The whispering at the after-party, the requests for comment, the notifications on your cell – you’d put up with it for hours before you decided you’d had enough. You excused yourself, dodged cameras and questions as best you could, and made it back to the hotel suite without letting anyone see you sweat.

The crude comments and unsolicited advice, the creepy fetishists and public scrutiny, the harsh criticisms and degrading remarks – it could all be found in the feedback and it set your teeth on edge.

You were the owner and CEO of a successful company. Your employees were _genuinely_ happy and very well-compensated. You invested the majority of your considerable net worth back into the community that had always supported you as well as your business. You were on your way to becoming a published author and thinking about running for local office. You were hard-working, intelligent, kind, and philanthropic, but _none_ of it mattered, and it would never be _enough_.

Behind closed doors, you were no longer exposed, nor were you required to maintain your composure. The bubbly you’d snagged on your way out _deserved_ to be poured into a flute, but you drank it out of the bottle. You kicked off your Jimmy Choo’s, slammed the matching clutch on the dresser, and practically tore off your jewelry.

You were _furious_ and _exhausted_ and so damn _sick of it._ You also wondered why you allowed yourself to get so worked about it; after all, it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen or heard before, but nevertheless, your throat closed up tight, and now that you were alone, you supposed you could have a good cry about it if you wanted to.

But you _didn’t_ want to. And anger was better than tears, so, you stuck with that.

Ten minutes of fuming and guzzling passed before there was a series of texts that indicated your husband was displeased by your absence, and when the messages went unanswered, patterned buzzing quickly followed. You ignored both in favor of taking down your hair, polishing off the _Cristal,_ and stewing in your own indignation, but some nosy busybody must’ve tattled because right on the heels of another call, the door beeped, and Chris bellowed your name as he stormed into the room.

Wild eyes and puffed out chest. Flushed face and tie skewed. He paced, cursed, and muttered to himself before he abruptly stopped mid-stride, put his hands on his hips, and roughly cleared his throat.

The furrow of his brow – he was aware of the situation. The tick of his jaw – he was _pissed_.

The way he anxiously ran his hand over his beard was a tell-tale sign that he knew it wasn’t your fault or his fault, but he was still sorry for it. The fierce expression on his face indicated he felt _useless_ ; he was your _husband_ and he couldn’t protect you; and he couldn’t comprehend how you managed to separate the love you had for him from the shitty baggage that sometimes came along with being his wife. 

Chris reached for you, gripped your waist just a little too tightly, and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He held you as if he were afraid that you’d pull away from him; inhaled deeply as if he’d forgotten the scent of your skin; and exhaled raggedly when you wrapped your arms around him.

Another slow, deep breath. A nuzzle to your neck. A kiss to your throat. Murmurs of appreciation and adoration, followed by the scrape of whiskers up your jaw as he sought your mouth. Your name rolled and rumbled off his tongue, and he nibbled on your lower lip as he deliberately, possessively, and reverently palmed your curves.

“Chris,” you whispered breathlessly.

“ _Want_ you,” he groaned. “Need _you_.”

A creak of leather. A whisper of a zipper. A rustle of fabric. Chris guided your hand beneath the waistband of his slacks and boxers, and one, firm squeeze elicited a litany of desperate, spluttered requests for more. By the third twist-and-tug, he was hot and slick in your hand, and he panted and growled as he yanked off his jacket and rucked your dress up over your hips.

The frantic shuffle toward the bed was haphazard, but you somehow managed to get yourself naked from the waist down, and soon as your back hit the mattress, Chris wrangled himself out of his shoes and pants, and knelt between your legs.

Within minutes, he had you coming around his fingers, and he didn’t help you ride it out or allow you to catch your breath. His tie hung in your face and the seam of your skirt ripped when he spread your thighs wide, but he didn’t care, and neither did you. Chris didn’t ease you into it – he sank in swiftly, right to the hilt – and the only way he prevented you from clawing through the back of his shirt was by lacing your fingers together and pinning your arms above your head.

“M’gonna fuck you,” he rasped. “And later, m’gonna thirst-Tweet about it in graphic _fuckin’_ detail.”

Your startled laugh turned into a mewl of his name with a single thrust, and Chris stole the rest of the air from your lungs with a snap and roll of his hips. He grunted that he’d been turned-on since the moment he helped zip up your dress; that he’d thought about rolling up the partition and fucking you in the limo; that he’d been waiting all night to get his hands on you; that you’ve must’ve done something to him because he hadn’t been able to look at you or even think about you without getting hard.

The headboard thudded against the wall and Chris said he hoped _everyone_ heard it. He ground his pelvis against your clit and bit out between clenched teeth that he was going to find that kid and beat his fuckin’ ass. He mumbled that being inside you felt so fuckin’ good; that he belonged to you; that he wanted you to come again; that you were the smartest, sexiest, funniest woman in the world; and he needed you to come for him _right fuckin’ now_ …

Your climax vibrated through you, and Chris shoved his tongue in your mouth just in time to smother your cries of relief and satisfaction. When he reached his peak, the sound of pleasure that reverberated out of his chest was raw and primal, and it resounded down your own throat and right into your soul.

Then, Chris kissed you – all sloppy, deep, and sweet – and when he pulled away, he grinned, and tenderly cupped your cheek.

“I love you,” he declared gruffly.

You sighed, turned your face into his gentle touch, and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.

“I love you more.” 


End file.
